It wasn’t impossible that Kallistos’s position in Neha’s court had allowed him access to Eris, and, whatever else he had become, Isis’s lover had proven intelligent. More so perhaps than Eris—who had always been Neha’s gleaming ornament of a consort, a beloved plumed bird the archangel had showered with jewels and silks. “Kallistos must be using Eris’s estate as his base.”
“Go,” Raphael said, gathering the hurt angel’s body closer to his own. “Take all the men you need.”
“Sire.” I won’t leave the city vulnerable. There’s still a chance Neha’s hand is behind this. The archangel hated everyone who had helped execute her daughter, Anoushka—Raphael was amongst that number. This may be a trap to draw us away.
I’m more than capable of defending my city, Dmitri.
And she is more than capable of poisoning the air itself if it suits her purpose. I’ll go alone. I’m strong enough to handle Kallistos, even if he has more of his protovampires with him.
Raphael’s blue eyes were relentless. You will take Illium.
I am not blinded by the past. His decisions were rational, coldly so.
Nevertheless. Raphael’s expression changed the barest fraction. I would not lose my second.
Dmitri bowed his head in a slight nod. “Honor,” he said after the archangel walked out with his living cargo, “I’m going to take the chopper to Vermont—”
Stalking to stand face-to-face with him, she pushed at his chest. “If you’re even thinking about leaving me behind, think again.”
He should’ve stood firm, would have had it been any other woman. But Honor . . . she had her hooks so deep into him that it made the old, merciless part of him go motionless, examine the situation—and his sudden vulnerability—with icy focus. To destroy this strange, wonderful something between them, all it would take were a few well-chosen words of utmost cruelty.
Honor was smart, but she was also tender of heart. She didn’t know the depths to which he could go, the wounds he could inflict. He could make her bleed without ever raising a hand. “I am not a good man, Honor,” he said, touching his fingers to her jaw.
Instead of shying, she leaned into the touch. “You’re my man.”
You’re my man.
The echo of Ingrede’s words tangled with Honor’s, but then, his wife had been tender of heart, too. He’d protected that heart with all his strength . . . and he knew that despite the deep weakness she created in him, he would do so once more with Honor. It was a strange thing, to feel such tenderness again, to know he was capable of it. “Come. It’s time to beard the monster in his den.”
Venom was the one who most often piloted the chopper for use by the Seven, but Dmitri knew how to do it—he’d been curious when the machines had been invented. Though he found more pleasure in handling cars, he’d kept up the useful skill. Now, having delayed only long enough to change and gather weapons, he lifted the black machine off the helipad situated not on top of the Tower, but several floors below, on a balcony cut into part of the building.
“Illium?” Honor’s voice came through crystal clear, both of them miked, ears protected against the noise of the blades.
“He’s already on his way.” The blue-winged angel was one of the fastest fliers amongst his kind and would beat them to Vermont. “I’ve been in contact with the Made who live in and around the general region of Eris’s property.”
“I rang a couple of hunter friends nearby, too.” Her scent twined around him in the confines of the cockpit, fine ropes he knew he’d never break. “None of them had heard anything.”
“Neither had my people—but Kallistos is no youth.” He wouldn’t have done anything to draw attention to himself near his lair. “I’m certain we’ll find him there.”
“One way or another,” Honor said, reaching out to brush her fingers over his jaw in an unexpected caress, “tonight will finish this.”
“How do you understand?” That it savaged him to realize this small piece of Isis survived when his family’s ashes had been scattered by the wind so long ago, entire civilizations had risen and fallen in that time.
No longer touching him, she said, “I know you, Dmitri.” A fisted hand over her heart, her voice soft, potent with raw emotion. “Right here, so deep it feels as if you’ve been a part of me since the instant I took my first breath.”
Reaching out, he brought her fist to his lips, pressed a kiss to the knuckles. She robbed him of words, of sophistication, until he was once more the man he’d been with his wife—harder, deadlier, but with the capacity to feel emotions both beautiful and terrifying. He would spill blood for the mortal by his side, split open his veins if she asked, slay demons and enemies until the world shivered at the sound of his name.
But he would not mourn her. Because a man didn’t survive such a loss twice.
Having landed far enough from the house that their arrival should’ve gone unnoticed, Dmitri looked up as they began to navigate the heavy woods that led to Eris’s estate, attempting to spot Illium. Not even a hint against the starless night sky, but when Dmitri said, Illium, the response was immediate.
I see you. I’ve scouted the house—it’s silent, but there’s no way to know if Kallistos lies within.
Even if he isn’t there now, he’ll return to his lair sooner or later.
Breaking the mental contact, he relayed Illium’s words to Honor. She nodded, the gun she’d chosen as her main weapon held to her side. He preferred the blade. The scimitar he carried was an old favorite, and it often sat on display in Raphael’s home at the Refuge—but the last time he’d been at the angelic stronghold, Dmitri had felt driven to take it down, bring it to New York.
“The runes on your blade,” Honor asked as they continued to walk through the thick quiet of the woods, the rustling of the leaves the only sound. “What do they mean?”
“You should know,” he said with a provocative smile. “It was another witch who put them on the blade for me, after all.”
A green-eyed glance as sharp as the gleaming edge on his scimitar. “Careful, or I might decide to turn you into a toad.”
Hell with it.
Gripping the back of her neck, he brought her to him for the kiss he’d been wanting to claim for hours. A long dark tangling of tongues, he indulged in her until she shuddered, her lips ripe and swollen. “After this is over,” she said, touching her fingers to her kiss-wet mouth, “I think I want to spend a month locked in a bedroom with you.”
His lips curved. “That could be arranged.” The bedroom games he wanted to play with Honor were beyond decadent, beyond sinful. “The house should be coming up soon.”
“There,” Honor whispered a bare two minutes later.
Hidden in the midst of what felt like thousands of sugar maple trees shivering in the whispering night wind, the house sat private and cocooned from the outside world. Though they’d come out behind it, Honor had no doubt what she was seeing accurately reflected the overall architecture. Despite the serene setting, it was no fairy tale, no elegant retreat. It reminded Honor of nothing so much as a hulking beast, a monument to gothic excess.